


The Adventure Of The Velveteen Porter

by Cerdic519



Series: Further Adventures Of Mr. Sherlock Holmes [15]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Attempted Murder, M/M, Slow Burn, Trains, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 12:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14954510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: How to murder a consulting detective – and how not to.





	The Adventure Of The Velveteen Porter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [otala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/otala/gifts).



_Introduction by Sir Sherrinford Holmes, Baronet_

The relationship between Sherlock and his friend Doctor Watson had, I hoped, been repaired by my brother's generosity in arranging a week for the latter in Stratford pursuant to their last case. Sherlock had scowled mightily at both Kean and myself when we had laughed at his failure to have learnt much about Watson in their time together, and even more when he saw that Kean had had the list of his shortcomings framed and hung on our reception-room wall. Sherlock had then suggested we examine our own shortcomings, only for Kean to say that there was nothing short about him, which in those trousers there was palpably not. And after my brother had stormed off in a huff, my lover moved swiftly to prove it!

I really had to get Sherlock to come round more often.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Narration by Doctor John Hamish Watson, M.D._

Mr. Sherlock Holmes nearly always accepted cases on their points of interest alone, unless (as with our recent Mercian adventure) it was as a favour to a friend like Inspector Macdonald. No amount of money - and certainly no high title or fame - would make him take a case that he considered uninteresting. So I was not surprised to return to Baker Street one day and find that our latest client was a smartly-clad Great Northern Railway porter, resplendent in his velveteen uniform. Even if the fellow's haverings were clearly taxing my room-mate's patience somewhat.

“Let us go back to the beginning”, Holmes said, pressing his long fingers together. “I am not sure that what you have laid before me even constitutes a case, sir, but clearly your expertise in the area of railway matters is something that I must accede to. What first made you concerned?

Our client turned out to be a Mr. Robert Street, as I have said a railway porter. He was one of those quiet, nondescript sort of people, dark-haired and small of stature, about forty-five years of age and wearing round spectacles. He had clearly polished his uniform's buttons in order to make a good impression, and was also very clearly uneasy for some reason. He took a deep breath.

“Until a year ago sirs, I worked at Baldock Station”, he said. “It is on a small branch owned by the Company that connects the main line to the Hertfordshire town of Royston, some trains going on to Cambridge via the connecting Great Eastern Railway there. Baldock was a quiet place till the big accident.”

“Please tell us about that accident”, Holmes said. The man frowned.

“As I'm sure you gentlemen can appreciate”, our guest said, “railway trains is getting heavier and longer all the time, and this makes for a lot of wear on the poor old permanent way. Baldock is only a small station but there is a crossover to allow trains to change tracks. When they decided to renew the line they set the points so that trains all used the other line. There were flagmen and all the normal precautions, so the accident seemed.... weird.”

“I see”, Holmes said. “Pray continue.”

“It had to be that Cambridge train”, the man said ruefully. “All our regular trains are slow ones, stopping at every station to Royston. But the trains that go through to Cambridge are expresses – well, semi-fasts - and they don't stop. A train came down from Royston and for some reason the points were set to the missing track.”

I winced.

“Was anyone killed?” I asked. He shook his head.

“Thank the Lord she stayed upright”, he said, “and 'cause it was a semi-fast it had those new spring-loaded buffers on it. Lots of bangs and bruises but no deaths. Station was a mess of course, but that can be cleared up. Lives can't.”

Holmes looked at him shrewdly.

“I am sure that you know my work, sir”, he said coolly, “and you are further aware that whatever my abilities might or might not be, they do not extend to the prevention of accidents.”

“This weren't no accident”, the man said shortly.

We both stared at him in surprise.

“I see”, Holmes said heavily. “Well, the obvious question. Do you know that for a fact, and if so, how?”

The man looked if possible even more anxious.

“Few weeks before it happened”, he said, “when they started work on the track, Fred – the stationmaster – told me that he was sorta worried about the chief foreman. Oily little git by the name of Rudd. Fred said there was something odd about his eyes.”

“How did the man's physical appearance come into the matter?” Holmes asked, showing rather more patience that I might have expected. The man was definitely inclined to babble.

“Not the way he looked, the way he didn't look”, our guest said.

“You mean that he did not look people straight in the eye when addressing them?” I guessed. I had some patients like that and it always made me warier of them than I might otherwise have been, often with good justification. He looked at me gratefully.

“That's just it, sirs”, he said. “Mabel – that's my good lady wife – she always says that you can't trust a man that won't look you in the eye, and I thinks she's right on that.” 

“Did this foreman do anything suspicious leading up to the accident?” Holmes asked. The porter scratched his head.

“Rodders – Rodney, the flag chap who was supposed to warn oncoming trains – he said no-one had told him there'd be a fast train through.” He shook his head. “I don't see how that can be, though. Every man who does that job – and I've done it myself – gets a list of all trains due, and when I did it I had to show it to the boss every day to prove I hadn't lost it.”

I knew that railways were insistent on that safety measure at least after the tragic case of Foreman Bence who, some seventeen years back, had been supervising the repair of some worn-out track on the South Eastern Railway and had been caught out by the tidal, the train whose time varied because it had to wait for the ship from France to dock at Folkestone. The flagman on duty had lost his copy of the timetable that would otherwise have alerted him of the train and had not pushed for a replacement, and the resulting crash earnt the railway company much justifiable criticism. Especially as amongst the passengers had been the famous author Charles Dickens; when he had died some five years later many had ascribed both that and his recent limited output as evidence of his sufferings on that day. And railways accidents were, it should be said, far more frequent in those days with safety measures being patchy and resisted by the companies, although things were now slowly improving. 

“No-one was killed, and yet you have come all this way from your country station to see a consulting detective”, Holmes mused. “Clearly there has been some further development in this tale that has made you anxious. What is it?”

The porter hesitated.

“I live in Stotfold, sirs, about a couple of miles from the station. O' course I didn't say anything to anyone official-like at the time, but I talked about it with Bert who lives a few doors down from me. He's a porter too, see, though he works on the main line at Sandy up towards Peterborough. The other day he came to me and told me that Rudd and his gang were replacing the rails on that line.”

Holmes thought for a moment.

“Where are you working now?” he asked. 

“That's what's got me worried, sir”, the man fretted. “I helped out after the accident and got myself injured for my pains. The Company treated me right and when I was mended they gave me a choice; my old job or porter working alongside Bert up at Sandy. It's the same pay and better for me because he has use of a horse and cart to get him there of a day, so he gives me a lift.”

“That is very neighbourly of him”, Holmes said. “So Mr. Rudd and his men are now working in your new station's vicinity?”

The porter nodded.

“You see, sir”, he said, leaning forward, “the layout at Sandy is sorta odd. The Varsity line – the London & North Western, Oxford to Cambridge - that cuts across ours north of the town then runs into a station that not only sits next to ours, we share a platform.”

That did surprise me. Railway companies sharing platforms was like nations sharing disputed territories. Many lines about this time were being built not so much to link new places to the network but solely to frustrate rival companies from gaining entry to a set area, and no matter how small a town was every company seemed to feel that it had to have its own station if only for the prestige value.

“There's a connection north of where the lines split”, the porter said, “a real sharp curve. We only got lucky at Baldock because the line is dead straight; if it'd been a curve, then Lord alone knows what might have happened.”

Holmes thought again, and it was some little time before he spoke.

“Mr. Street”, he said gravely, “I must be direct with you. I wish you to empathize.”

“Shouting, sir?” our guest queried. I bit back a snigger.

“Empathize, not emphasize”, Holmes pressed, although I could see that it had amused him slightly as well. “To put yourselves in the shoes of the criminals in this matter. If you were able to derail one train and send it to its destruction, which one would you target?”

The man looked horrified at such an idea, but nodded obediently and thought hard.

“The Night Mail, sir”, he said at last. “It has to be.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because the reduced visibility would mean that the driver and fireman would not see the danger before it was too late”, Holmes said. “And all those letters, cheques and postal orders to be spirited away in the confusion.... yes, it would be the perfect target. Well done, Mr. Street.”

Our visitor visibly preened.

“Where are the men working today?” Holmes asked.

“This week they're doing the down line between my station and Arlesey, the next stop towards London”, he said. “There's a lot of chopping and changing; trains all over the place. I guess that next week they'll do the up line next to it, and the station the week after. And that Mr. Rudd is on holiday this week but he's back in two weeks' time.”

“Then that is when they will strike”, Holmes said. He stared for some little time at our guest, then smiled. “I would like for you to send a telegram to us next week either way to advise on their progress, and again when they move to working in Sandy station. The doctor and I will come up as soon as that happens.”

The man thanked us and left.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“I am sorry”, he said as we sat by the fire after a most delicious dinner. “I presumed, again. But I do find your presence grounding, and would be grateful if you could accompany me on this case.”

His presumption had irked me somewhat, but I felt pleased that I served some role even if it was just as a whetstone on which the keen blade that was his mind needed sharpening,

“You spent a lot of time just staring at that poor railwayman”, I observed. “Was there something odd about his story?”

Holmes seemed to hesitate.

“There was nothing odd about his story, Watson.”

I had the distinct impression that there was more to what he had said that my feeble brain was capable of discerning. No change there, then.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“I learnt something new today.”

It was three days after our velveteen visitor, and Holmes seemed unusually cheerful given the time of morning and non-appearance as yet of breakfast (the normally efficient Mrs. Hudson had employed a new maid who, on her first day, had managed to open a door at precisely the wrong time and send the maid carrying our tray of food up flying). 

“What was that?” I said. I had had a particularly hard day out and about the day before, and had been feeling exhausted when I had finally made it back to Baker Street. 

“My brother Mycroft sent round some information that I had requested”, he said, “and assisted me in putting certain arrangements in place for our porter friend.”

“Good”, I said, my eyes lighting up as the maid finally arrived with our breakfast. “I am starving!”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Further telegrams kept us apprised of developments up in Bedfordshire, and two weeks later Holmes and I set out for King's Cross Station to take a train there. I was a little surprised that he did not bring or advise me to bring a night bag; I would have thought that we would have to spend several days in the area. I still brought my gun though; one never knew in this day and age.

We made good progress until we reached the small station at Arlesey whereon Holmes stood up.

“We alight here”, he said.

“Is not Sandy the next stop?” I asked, confused.

“It is”, he said, “but we will not be taking this train there.”

“Why not?” I asked. He just smiled knowingly and led the way out of the carriage. I followed, wondering.

Out on the platform the stationmaster had had drawn up a luggage trolley and was balancing a little precariously (for he was a large man) on top of it. All the other passengers seemed to have alighted as well, milling around and chatting in confusion.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” the stationmaster called, mercifully gaining the attention of the crowd at once. “My sincerest apologies for delaying your journey, but we have a major problem with the line beyond Sandy, the next stop down. The line has suffered some damage due to a storm last night, so the company will be putting on a replacement train which will use the other line through there.”

“Why can't we just use this train?” one gentleman called out, quite reasonably I thought.

“The other line has also sustained some damage”, the stationmaster said, “but it is usable at slow speed. However, to use, this heavy locomotive would be risky, and we do not wish to expose our passengers to unnecessary danger. Fortuitously we have an experimental rake of coaches at Hitchin; a lighter engine is already collecting them and will be on the opposite platform in around a quarter of an hour.”

“Experimental?” one haughty-looking lady snapped. “What precisely is wrong with them, young man?”

“They are experimental first-class coaches, with superior suspension, madam”, the stationmaster said smoothly. “I am sorry for the delay, but you will all be on your way again – and with more comfortable seating – very soon.”

There was still a little grumbling but the passengers headed for the footbridge. I sighed. Railways these days.

“We had better join them”, I said. To my surprise he shook his head.

“Watch”, he said quietly.

I followed his pointing finger to where our locomotive was beginning to move its heavy rake of coaches slowly up the line. I knew that Sandy was some miles further on but it still seemed to be accelerating rather rapidly in my opinion. Holmes handed me a pair of binoculars, and I watched as the locomotive steamed off into the distance. Just the other side of a road over-bridge, and seconds before they would have disappeared from my view, I was sure that I saw both the driver and fireman leap off the moving engine. 

What on earth....?

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“I still do not get it”, I said plaintively, as we made our way back to London. “Nor do I understand why the conductor was so strange when he checked our tickets. Anyone would have thought that he was some sort of spy, the way he was all cloak and dagger with us.”

“Such a presumption would have been quite correct.”

Words. I was sure that, at some time in the not too recent past I had been capable of them, but for now I just floundered. He smiled and sat back.

“Do you remember my mentioning to you the case concerning the painting of 'The Two Ladies'?” he asked.

“Mr. Khrushnic”, I said. “You helped his son Ivan over whether his brother Gregor was innocent or guilty over its theft.”

Holmes nodded.

“Since then”, he said, “Mr. Khrushnic has made it clear to the criminal world in London that any action against me would _not_ be well received on his part. In short, it would result in a one-way dip in Old Father Thames. So for anyone wishing to push Mr. Sherlock Holmes into the hereafter, they would first have to make sure that it looked like an accident. He paused before adding, “such as a railway accident.”

I opened and closed my mouth as I attempted to rejoin the world of reality. It was out there somewhere, I was sure. Fairly sure.

“My would-be attacker has many names”, he said, “but only two are of import. In the London crime world he is known as Mr. Rowland, and his speciality is in bribery of top officials and government ministers. Mycroft, who works for the government in his own capacity, has been concerned about him for some time and had already warned me that in helping Mr. Khrushnic I had drawn the villain's attention upon myself.”

“Mr. Rowland knows that doing anything directly against me would bring upon him the wrath of Mr. Khrushnic and the resultant terminal swim”, Holmes went on calmly. “So he is more subtle. He creates a case that he thinks will draw my attention. One of his confederates becomes Mr. Robert Street, a railway porter who worked at Baldock Station and now works at Sandy. There was a real accident at Baldock, the real Mr. Street who hails from Letchworth was off work as a result, and he does indeed now work at Sandy. But he has never been to Baker Street and physically he is rather different from our alleged velveteen client. I visited the town one day and checked.”

“So the porter was a fake!” I exclaimed. He nodded.

“There were clues”, he said. “I was immediately suspicious because of the lack of stoop.”

“Of what?” I asked, confused.

“Railway luggage hand-carts are notoriously badly designed”, he explained. “Anyone who had really spent much of their existence pushing one of those contraptions heavily laden with people's luggage would quickly develop some arching of the back. This man had none. Then there was his skin.”

“What about his skin?” I asked. “I noticed some soot on his nails, which one would have expected.”

He smiled.

“There is soot and soot”, he said. “I do not know this man, but I would wager that in order to play his part he spent some time milling around one of the busy railway stations for a few days before he called on us, possibly even as a porter. It was his bad luck that he chose a Great Western Railway station for his preparation; he had some wear on his hands from carrying bags, but their locomotives use fine Welsh coal, which results in a much smaller soot particle. Fortunately our visitor was a little untidy, so I was able to collect some of the soot he left behind and confirm my suspicions by having it tested.”

I still felt confused.

“But how could they be sure that you would be on that train?” I asked.

“That was where the conductor came in”, Holmes smiled. “We knew that Mr. Rowland would be placing someone on the train to make sure that I was on it when it crashed, and that most likely that person would be in first class so they could be close to me. Brock – Mr. Basil Brockton the conductor – found and chloroformed the man when he went to take his ticket then locked his compartment. You saw the driver and fireman quit the train; when it crashed a few minutes later there would, by the workings of divine Providence, be only one person asleep on it.”

“A divine Providence called Sherlock Holmes”, I said.

“Mr. Rowland's gang doubtless set some sort of trap on the connecting point north of Sandy, so as to derail the train there”, Holmes said. “'Great detective dies in railway accident' would have been in the papers for a day or so, then they would have moved on.”

“But I would not have!” I said hotly. “You should have trusted me.”

He smiled at me, a little sadly.

“Watson, you are too good for that”, he said. “You wear your heart on your sleeve, and are so honest and true that you make a terrible liar. Of course I would trust you with my life if necessary.”

I was only partly mollified by the compliment.

“But you trusted your brother Mycroft”, I said, trying not sound sulky.

“I would never trust Mycroft unless I was forced to”, he said firmly.

“Then how....”

“Because Mycroft knows that if anything happened to me and Mother found out that he had been in any way involved, then the wrath of Mr. Khrushnic would be as nothing to her fury”, Holmes said. “He might flee to Jupiter, and she would still hunt him down!”

I chuckled at that, as our train sped on its way back to the Great Wen.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Postscriptum: I was a little anxious that the vile Mr. Rowland might try again to end the life of my friend, but this was prevented by Holmes simply passing on to Mr. Khrushnic the precise sequence of events. The news that two bodies had been dragged out of the Thames a few days after our return barely made the inside front page, as our last client and his paymaster exited our lives and their own._

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩


End file.
